


Poppies

by DoctorBilly



Series: Tales from the Billyverse [27]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-05-01 02:41:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5189075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorBilly/pseuds/DoctorBilly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock remembers</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poppies

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set in the Billyverse, and written for the SFPAC Armistice, Remembrance & Veterans prompt. 
> 
> Warning:implied major character death

"There are fewer of us every year." 

Sherlock pulls the poppy from his lapel and drops it in the unkempt grass and dead wildflowers.

"Mycroft was there, of course. Billy stayed away. I don't blame him. I would have stayed away too, but Mycroft would have been alone…"

Sherlock sniffs, pulls cigarettes and lighter from his pocket. 

"He looked old. Vulnerable. I had a sudden realisation that he might not be there one day. What will I do then?"

He drags smoke deep into his lungs. 

"Selfish, I know. But I always was, wasn't I? These years have been hard."

He kneels, careless of the cold, damp ground. He pulls dead stalks from the earth, finds an older, half snail-eaten remembrance poppy.

"Theyre not at all like the real thing, are they? Not close up. They last for years. The real ones are gone in a day…"

He stands, brushes off his coat. 

"Flanders poppies. Afghanistan poppies. One to help us remember, the other to help us forget…" He sniffs. "I almost followed you, you know. Billy wouldnt let me, though. He and Lestrade, they kept me here. I hated them for that, for a while. Not any more, though. The edge has gone from the pain. I miss it, some days."

He pulls his coat collar up around his neck, adjusts his scarf.

"They're going to give you a medal. Next year, I will have the right to walk in the parade. It's Mycroft's doing, of course. He kept on at them all these years, wore them down. Made them agree that your death was as much due to the combat as if you had actually died out there." He smiles. "I might cede the honour to your sister, though, if you don't mind. I don't need parades and paper poppies to remember you. I'd rather come here in the summer, when the real ones are blooming."

He jams his hands in his pocket. Shivers in the damp November air. 

"I miss you, John."


End file.
